Black Mischief
by knit-wear
Summary: Sequel to 'A Fairly Honourable Defeat.' Harley returns to Gotham looking to restart her life now that the Joker is locked away. She gets involved with Gotham's underworld on her own terms and she's feistier than ever. What is a Joker to do?
1. Prologue

Note: Sequel time!!!!!!!!!!

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Black Mischief and Red Kisses.

1. Prologue.

X

Harley loathed moving.

She managed to heave the last box up the stairs to her new apartment overlooking Robinson Park in the south side of Gotham. Having lost contact—or rather purposefully avoided contact with all of her old friends and acquaintances in Gotham she'd had no one but herself to rely on for the mammoth task of moving her life from New Haven back to Gotham. Now that she didn't have to hide from _him_ anymore there was no reason to remain in the stuffy little New England town pretending that research was actually her calling.

After the Joker's trial and subsequent commitment to Arkham Asylum she'd deemed it safe enough to return. That was at least what people thought her reasoning was. Harley wasn't so sure if safety was what she was most concerned with.

Pouring herself a glass of white wine she set about unpacking her bedroom first, clawing through cardboard boxes full of bubble wrap and trinkets she'd nearly forgotten about. Packing had been a blur—nothing seemed more important than getting out of New Haven as soon as possible and returning to _life_. Somehow Gotham promised that.

After making her decision to return—sometime around her last talk with the Joker at MCU—maybe about ten minutes after she'd left the holding cell—Harley had quickly turned in her resignation at Yale and began hunting for work in Gotham before heading back up the coast.

Jeremiah Arkham wanted her to work for him, citing her internship three years earlier as proof that she was desperately needed at the institution. Harley imagined it had more to do with her _former_ relationship with the Joker.

Joan Leland, who had also been at Arkham during her internship offered her a low paying position at a clinic in the Narrows. Though she respected the older doctor this adventure in charity did not appeal to Harley's new found sense of life and adventure. Treating homeless schizophrenics? Boring.

Of course, the last thing she had expected was the pair of burly Italian men waiting outside her hotel only days before she was set to return to New Haven. Harley instantly knew they were there for her and rather than feeling fear that the mob were taking an interest she felt only excitement. Adventure. Freedom.

Harley finished making her bed and sat down, feeling exhausted already and she'd only been at it for an hour. She pulled a box up labeled 'Crap' up on the bed and began sifting through it, opting to throw most of it out. Some ridiculous neon orange champagne glasses, a pair of old ballet shoes she hadn't worn in years, a medical bag, a few gymnastics trophies that meant nothing to her; nothing of any real value.

The Italians offered her a ride to the airport which she accepted warily. They said they'd heard she was returning to Gotham. And then they said that Maroni and the rest of the family could use her help if she was willing to give it—for a hefty salary of course.

"_What could Maroni possibly use me for?" she asked slyly._

_The fatter one wearing too much gold jewelry grunted. "You know people, babes. You know a lot of people. And you're a doctor—a shrink—Jonathan Crane is locked up in the nuthouse so he can't help the boss when we's needin' a uh—professional opinion."_

"_Maroni wants me to be his psychiatrist?" She asked, wrinkling her nose and fighting the urge to laugh.._

"_We'd just bein' doin' each other favors—" the skinnier one with overly oiled hair explained suavely. "You scratch our backs we scratch yours."_

"_So," Harley crossed her arms primly. "Would I be doing anything other than lying to keep you guys out of prison?"_

"_Well, that's down to you now, babes, isn't it."_

"_That depends," she said frostily. _

_The two men looked at each other warily. "On what?" the fat one asked._

_She couldn't help but crack a grin. "On how much you're going to pay me."_

The conversation still thrilled her. Working for the mob. It wasn't like it was exactly new to her and it was at least _something_ to keep her mind from rotting.

Two months ago she had been a reclusive little shrew smelling of old books and dirty hair. Her run in with the Joker, her ex lover, had snapped her out of it somehow and she was back to her platinum blonde, crimson lipped, snappy, confident self again. And it felt so good. She wasn't going to waste it by being a family therapist in the suburbs. No. She would use her talent to make her life _mean something_.

All the better if her life meant anarchy.

He would love that.

Harley's hand scratched over something cold and metal in the bottom of the box and she felt her skin prickle with fear and excitement simultaneously. Slowly she pulled out the gun; it was larger than she remembered it being—the silencer on the end made it look less threatening somehow but Harley couldn't stop the memory—or rather the sensation that came with killing a person, of taking life—from slipping over her like a cold wave.

She chuckled to herself.

Feeling around the bottom of the box she sighed, thinking maybe she was moving to fast. Coming back to Gotham, getting involved with the mob, now finding an old gun—a trinket from her past criminality and finding it amusing rather than disturbing. It was a slippery slope she was on.

Her fingers rubbed against something soft and Harley frowned, unsure what this new object could be. If it was in the 'Crap' box along with a gun maybe it wasn't as boring as a pair of old ballet shoes. She lifted the small, soft article out from under the bubble wrap and examined it with wide, nearly shocked eyes.

A black velvet box, just bigger than her palm and heavier than it looked.

"_I love it."_

"_Really?"_

"_Of course I—"_

_He'd cut her off by grabbing her and kissing her, the box left open and forgotten on the table as they pawed and kissed one another with unrestrained passion._

Harley opened the box, her heart beating fast, her leg twitching with anticipation and just as she'd expected the diamond necklace sat innocently inside, glittering up at her with more meaning than a necklace could ever possibly hold. Her breath caught in her throat and Harley let out a choked whimper, similar to how she'd felt upon seeing the Joker in court that first time six months earlier.

Shocked and overwhelmed—unprepared for the onslaught of emotions.

Except at the trial all she'd seen was green hair and wild, manic eyes that threatened to kill her for leaving him. To ruin her life all over again and crush her spirit and send her further into her own version of insanity.

But this little piece of jewelry didn't remind her of hospitals, crying and fear—of being thrown out of windows and loosing control of her life and her sense of self. Quite the opposite.

_She was propped up on her arms reading a medical text, naked to the waist where a sheet covered her lower half. He was lying with his head against the small of her back, also reading one of her medical text books—this one on anatomy and dissection. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and the windows were open, letting in a soft breeze. _

_Harley rolled onto her back and he adjusted so his head was propped up on her stomach, his blonde curls fanning out across her flat abdomen. In the summer his curls lightened up from dirty blonde and it annoyed him endlessly, feeling as though he looked like an adorable child who would not be taken seriously. Harley had laughed at this and he'd glared, as if to say "See!"_

_But now he was quiet, turning pages, his lips moving, twitching from side to side in his inability to remain completely still. Harley felt herself sigh happily earning a crooked look from him._

"_Pathology that good, hmm?" he joked, then rolled over, the anatomy book now forgotten at the foot of the bed. He pressed his face to her abdomen and for a moment Harley though he was going to blow a raspberry but instead he just dropped a soft kiss near her navel._

_She let out a shaky breath and allowed her fingers trip through the soft blonde curls carefully._

_Velvety green eyes jerked up to look at her coyly and upon seeing the way she bit her lip and seemed to hold her breath he leaned down and pressed his lips to her stomach again, this time a rib—then her left hip, her right—hands running under the sheet that covered her, exposing her thigh as he kissed upwards, moving haphazardly towards her breasts._

Her hands were shaking as the memory assaulted her. Curly blonde hair. Soft green eyes. Unscarred mouth so soft and yet brutal—but always beautiful.

There were tears coming now, and before she could control herself Harley had ransacked her purse for her phone and was dialing the number Jeremiah Arkham had given her in case she ever felt like contacting him. She got through the first four digits, trying not to cry but feeling blinded by the memory of her lover before he was the Joker. Before the Joker took her lover. Before—what had happened?

Her fingers slowed on the key pad and Harley slid her phone shut resolutely.

The Joker was not her lover, no matter how similar the two might seem, they were irrevocably different. Going to Arkham would be a mistake. It would prove to him that she still needed him and it would prove to her that she did too. But that wouldn't happen.

Harley slammed the lid on the necklace closed and shoved it violently back in the box. She picked up the gun with the silencer still attached and ran her fingers over it almost lovingly, like a long lost pet.

She did not need him.

X

Note: Soooo, Harley's back and she's a bit feisty.

**REVIEW GODDAMNIT**! You beautiful people!


	2. She Came to Stay

Dedicated to **LadiLexi** cause she's followed pretty much all of my work and is awesome.

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Black Mischief and Red Kisses

2. She Came to Stay

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Gotham City Court House was beginning to feel remarkably familiar to Harley. She sat in the second row watching with pursed lips as the new District Attorney paced in front of the witness stand. Her eyes drifted to the small Mediterranean-looking man sitting quietly on the stand, his eyes slightly glossy while he fidgeted in his seat. Harley had coached him well. Alfonso Peroni was an obnoxious creep unable to keep a smug smirk of his face for longer than five seconds. But she'd fixed that.

Harley felt a similar smile cross her lips. Her tutorial in 'how to look genuinely insane' had gotten nearly eight criminals out of county prison and sent to Arkham for only a matter of months before Jeremiah Arkham (also on the mob's pay role) declared them fit for reentry into society granted they continue therapy with him. Which obviously they never came to being they were out killing and robbing on behalf of the mob as usual.

They let Peroni off the stand and he staggered crookedly back to his seat earning several murmurs from the DA's assistants suggesting maybe—just maybe this thug was actually as bonkers as his lawyers said he was.

Harley was called to the stand and she instantly made her countenance grim as she walked slowly to the front of the court room. She wore a black pencil skirt with a red silk blouse belted at the waist and a pair of towering heels. The judge was male, so this always helped her cause.

These were all reasons why she'd pocketed $20,000 each time a crook was let go based on her testimony.

She fought back a pleased giggle.

"In my professional opinion Mr. Peroni suffers from paranoid schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. The combination of these two disorders and a lack of treatment indicates that the defense is correct in their assertion that he was unable to make clear decisions at the time of his crime. Frankly, I think sentencing Mr. Peroni to anywhere but a mental institution where he can receive proper treatment would only result in further criminality on his part when he is released. In Arkham he will be able to be rehabilitated and sent back to society a healthy and productive member."

Jonathan Crane had nothing on her when it came to earning the mob's cash, she thought smugly.

After the trial, when Alfonso had been sentenced to Arkham and Harley's $20,000 was wired into her bank account she found herself unable to stop smiling on her way out of the court room. Everything was so much—_better _ these days. She'd been in Gotham for nearly two months, in which time the shrew-like Harleen Quinzel of Yale University's research department—a glorified librarian faded into Dr. Harley Quinzel, a valued and respected member of Gotham's underbelly.

But she wanted more. She couldn't explain why but she wanted more. More dirty money, more opportunities to screw with Gordon and crooked cops and those idiotic citizens. She found Gotham had three kinds of people. The rich: trust fund babies like Bruce Wayne. The criminals: members of the mob who at least worked for their money. And the poor: people of the narrows susceptible to mental illness and petty crime.

Harley found it hilarious that the mob was the group she had the most respect for.

But again, she wanted more. And her inner psychiatrist had an idea the reason why she was involving herself so thoroughly in crime had to do with him—missing him—her lover.

God, she missed him so much.

That young man in skinny blue jeans plastered to his stick thin legs with curly blonde hair and bright green eyes. Even with the scars, she longed for him to show up on the fire escape, his dirty white converse sneakers covered in blood and brain matter after a night at 'work'. When he needed her and possibly loved her even if he pretended such a concept didn't exist.

But that man no longer existed. He was the Joker now. Cruel and insane and truly incapable of needing another human being, least of all her. Both of them consumed her thoughts and her dreams, even if one was dead and the other locked up in a mental institution. According to her employers this was for the best because the Joker could not be trusted out on the streets of Gotham. He wanted to destroy the city, not just control it.

But Harley knew the reason why she'd chosen crime and the seedy mob life was partially because it made her feel closer to her dead lover. She doubted he was locked up inside the Joker, but rather completely eradicated from existence. Harley was certain of this because she had watched it happen.

She practically skipped down the last few steps of the court house, trying to block out the conscious thoughts and memories and push them to the back of her mind when suddenly Commissioner Gordon stepped into her path. He wore a grim expression behind that bushy mustache and she had to stop from giggling at how _useless_ he was in the face of her testimony.

"Dr. Quinzel," he frowned and seemed to take stock of her—from her platinum hair (not mousy) to her crimson lips and well put together outfit—but most of all the confidence and clarity she exuded so different to when he'd first met her; when she was a woman destroyed by the Joker. Apparently closure was all she'd needed. But unfortunately she'd taken the path so often traveled in Gotham and gone with the 'bad guys'.

"Commissioner Gordon," she replied, holding out a hand for him to shake.

He held her gaze for a moment and then ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed. "Harley, what are you doing." His tone was compassionate, worried, sincere; all the things he'd been when she'd come to the Joker's trial and he'd tried to _save_ _her_ from her horrible, murderous ex boyfriend.

Harley felt a twinge of guilt. He'd only ever been kind to her. But it wasn't like she was doing anything to harm him personally—just a minor vendetta against his moral code.

"I don't understand what you mean, Commissioner," she sniffed.

"Are you working for the mob?" He asked stiffly, and then sighed. "I mean off the record—have they got something on you? Do you need money or help or—protection."

Harley's stomach clenched with guilt. He really thought that highly of her. "Like I said, James. I really don't understand what you mean." She glanced over her shoulder and decided lying rather than avoiding him was her best chance in not disappointing him further. "I spoke to Peroni on several occasions. Everything about his demeanor, personality and way of thinking indicates schizophrenia. And you know as well as I do that if left untreated he's just going to come out of county in a few years and go back to a criminal lifestyle."

So many lies. But they rolled off her tongue so easily.

Gordon frowned. "Why is it every time you're called in as a witness they end up going to Arkham."

"I'm a criminal psychiatrist, James. There's a reason they bring them to me in the first place. This city is overrun with mental illness—" she trailed off, pretending to look at her watch. "I know you're thinking about Jonathan Crane—but I have nothing to do with him. Now if you'll excuse me I have a lecture in twenty minutes."

Gordon waved her off with a worried, "Take care Harley."

She hailed a cab and tried to ignore the sensation of guilt gripping her as she made her way to Gotham University.

As a cover Harley taught psychiatry at the University twice a week. It was satisfying in a different kind of way.

But she wanted more from the mob. It was like an addiction, especially when it came to avoiding feelings of guilt or melancholy.

"Shit," she mumbled under her breath. How far in was she willing to go?

Without a further thought she dug through her bag for her mobile and scrolled through the contacts to find Maroni's secretary. The woman answered primly.

"Hello," Harley replied, feeling that happy confidence return. She was doing something for herself. "This is Dr. Harley Quinzel. I need to make an appointment with Mr. Maroni as soon as he's available."

X

The Joker sighed a long suffering, tortured sigh of boredom and repressed irritation as the male nurse dabbed at his forehead with anti-septic. Four months at this damn place and he was getting really bored. He had decided to wait six months before he'd make his escape. It wouldn't be hard. Despite being in the maximum security ward it would be a piece of cake to get out.

Two weeks in and he'd figured out how to get out of the straight jacket though none of the guards or doctors were aware of this. A month in he'd wheedled it out of Jonathan Crane where the staff parking lot was and the best way to get there from the main part of the building. That had been during the joint therapy time he and Crane had been given at the hand of Dr. Hugo Strange who had taken a twisted pleasure in both of them. So far they two were the only _real_ criminals in Arkham. The rest were just nut jobs.

As soon as the staff worked out that the Joker had taught Crane how snap someone's neck with just his hands those sessions had promptly stopped. The Joker had also taught Crane how to get out of a straight jacket but again, they didn't know that.

He liked Crane. The man was a proper nut job—he hallucinated and had a split personality and could be just as evil as the Joker when he wanted to—but he was also greedy and impulsive. Not to mention insecure and needy.

Two months left, the Joker told himself with an internal groan.

The upside was the guards were easily riled up which meant fights were frequent enough. That was how he'd ended up with a deep gash in his forehead—one hot headed young guard had properly whacked him across the face with his night stick. The guy'd been fired despite the Joker's pleading that he stay on as his personal guard.

The door to the medical bay opened with the usual sound of bars slamming back with a harsh metallic snap and a young woman in a straight jacket was lead in by two incredibly butch female guards. The Joker raised his brow and watched curiously as she limped slightly to the bed next to his. Despite a cut lip that still bled profusely and a bruise blooming up on her cheek she was absolutely stunning.

Waves of curling scarlet hair fell around her shoulders and she wore a sparkling green dress under her straight jacket that showed off a pair of gorgeous legs. She was barefoot and looked incredibly annoyed at her situation as another nurse attended to her very swollen ankle.

Feeling him staring she turned with sparkling green eyes that were almost feline and snapped, "See something you like—" she trailed off, her pretty eyes dropping to his mouth and the two scars that drew both sides into a wide, forced smile. "Oh." She finished weakly.

"_Hi_," he said with a sneer, annoyed that she seemed so repulsed by the knotted flesh around his mouth. "Nice stems," he added nodding to her legs seen as he was unable to gesture in the straight jacket.

"Fuck off," she growled, her eyes flashing dangerously again.

One of the guards told her off and she seemed to practically snarl in response. "You've got the Joker sitting here and you're telling me to behave? Hah!"

"Hah!" The Joker mimicked her, finding this woman to be incredibly entertaining. "What's your name you evil bitch?"

This made her snort ungracefully but not anger her. "Pamela Isley."

"What happened to you?"

"Batman," she growled under breath.

The Joker let out a long hysterical laugh that made Pamela stare at him with a perturbed glaze to her pretty face. "Batman—Batman!" He cried hoarsely. "Oh—how is he? Does he look well? He beats up women—I _love_ that."

"You like Batman?" she asked, arching a perfect eyebrow.

"I _adore_ Batman." He purred.

"You are mad after all." She sighed and then perked up. "He's the one that put you in here—well—" she seemed to grin cruelly for a moment and didn't bother to hide it. "He's not the only one obviously."

The Joker smiled happily, enjoying the discussion. His capture didn't bother him so much as the boredom he was enduring on the inside. All the better to lead Gotham into a false sense of security before he blew back in their lives. "I don't mind."

Pamela chuckled. "I'd be furious if my ex testified against me. I'd rip his eyes out and feed them to him. Mmm—I already did that actually."

The smile dropped right off the Joker's face, his scars the only thing holding an expression in place. "What does that mean—hmm?"

"He cheated on m—"

"NO!" The Joker snarled viciously, cutting her off. "What do you mean _she testified against me? _What makes you sure--- how would you know?" He hadn't thought about Harley in ages. Maybe once a week on average. He was too busy plotting and thinking about Batman and how he was torn between killing him and keeping him around. But the fact that this woman who also, apparently, had something to do with Batman knew about Harley made his blood boil.

"Everyone knows, it was in all the papers." She said casually. "Dr. Harley Quinzel, the only person to come forward who knows anything about you." She giggled. "You didn't know?"

He thought back to the trial but it was all a blur. He remembered being furious with her for showing up, but then gradually things played out as he would have hoped. She had looked pathetic at first but then something snapped and she was back to her old self. She'd kissed him. She'd reminded him of a past he'd nearly forgotten with a woman who—

He hated thinking about those things. It was distracting.

"Anyway she's working for the Mob these days," Pamela continued airly. "Quite genius really. She's making a mint for doing absolutely nothing other than getting Maroni's thugs out of prison and in here. She's got them wrapped around her little finger."

"What," the Joker said crisply. Harley was working for the mob? _HIS Harley?_ The one who so loathed going on jobs with him but did it anyway out of some misplaced ideal of love and loyalty? She was working for the mob on her own now? She was back in Gotham?

"Wrapped around her little finger? Being valuable in Gotham shouldn't be underrated." Pam smirked, enjoying his reaction.

Valuable, he thought, his mind drifting to Harley's soft blonde hair and how it felt against his cheek. And then the way she would sigh softly in his ear after she'd come. Or the stupid giggle she was unable to control when he sent her certain looks. Or the blinding pain of the needle as it came through his cheek to sew him back together.

He felt sick as they led him back to his cell.

X

"You want what?"

"More work. Not just getting your thugs out of prison time. I want more."

Maroni took in Harley's appearance and compared it to the request she was making. A well manicured, put together young woman with eight years of education behind her, a doctorate, a successful career as a Professor of psychology and a handy past with the Joker. And now she was asking for something even the lowliest of thugs didn't simply _ask_ for. They were faceless pieces of muscle assigned their tasks—no one would care if they were gone.

Harley was looking at him almost pleadingly and Maroni shook his head, laughing quietly. "Alright—you want more work? Your finances can't be that tight considering the 20 grand I just gave you this morning."

"Obviously not." She said frigidly, but did not elaborate.

"Alright," he said with a shrug. "You busy tonight? There's a job in—"

"No." Harley said firmly, taking him by surprise at her candor. "I'm not playing look out. I'm not going to be the get away driver. I'm not working _with_ your thugs." She reached into her bag and pulled out the gun that had once belonged to the Joker and set it on the table between them; a heavy thud resounded around the room.

"The Joker taught me how to kill. That's what I want to do."

Maroni stared at her, feeling a sense of déjà vu in the determined way she huffed and held her ground. She was just a woman going through a crisis, he thought, with perhaps a touch of insanity after years with the Joker. But she wasn't the Joker. She wasn't a mad dog to let off the leash. She was a woman after all. Doubtful that she would fly off the handle if he sent her out there.

X

A few nights later and Harley was walking calmly down the steps of a sky scraper in the financial district. A trench coat belted firmly at the waist covered her blood stained camisole and dark blue skinny jeans that clung to her ankles. Actually, there was something pale and oozing clinging to her ankles where the denim ended and a pair of black ballet flats began. Oh—brain matter—she'd almost forgotten what it looked like.

Harley sighed happily and let out an erratic giggle that threatened to become more.

God. That felt good.

X

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this—it's all DC or Chris Nolan (right?). Also, the chapter title is from a novel by Simone de Beauvoir.

Note: So I'm pretty happy with this so far—anyone else? Thoughts? Concerns? Questions?

All Full of Lies, LadiLexi, Luvmecuzimme, madelinee, svart and DemolitionLover; Thanks for adding this to your alert thingie cause it's good to know people are excited about it.

Please Review, cause they're so great and lovely and make me happy. I really want to know what everyone thinks!


	3. The Ethics of Ambiguity

Black Mischief and Red Kisses

3. The Ethics of Ambiguity

x

The Joker sat in his cell twisting a lock of now blonde hair around his finger as he stared up at the padded ceiling. Dirty blonde was a horrible colour on him, he thought. Made him look innocent and ridiculous—and although that could be construed as deceptive (which he liked) it didn't fit—made him feel uncomfortable every time he got a look at his reflection in the mirror. Green was much better.

His thoughts had been consumed by Harley ever since Poison Ivy had told him she'd officially taken up with the Mob. It was so--- unexpected. So unlike her. So intriguing. His Harley would have sooner died than turn to criminal life. She despised it. That was part of the reason he'd forced her into it before.

Resentment was not an emotion he was fond of. At the time Harley had become a constant in his life. Consistency did not equate to chaos and though he knew something must be done it seemed impossible to tell her to leave. Not when she was so obsessed with him—and not when the sex was so good.

He hadn't thought about sex in a long time either. It was an animalistic act that gave another person the potential to be in control—that in of itself put him off the whole thing. But Harley was always so deliciously touchable and she always let him be in control so there hadn't been any conflict. His thoughts briefly touched on a night after she'd come out with him to play look out and for once seemed to enjoy herself.

All the way home they'd held hands and given each other secret looks, Harley just happy to be sharing something with him while he was excessively pleased that she was enjoying playing the bad guy.

_They'd only managed to make it to the elevator before he'd pushed her viciously into the wall and attacked her mouth, kissing her with everything he had inside him and she responded in kind, her hands running spastically over his chest and sides and shoulders and finally digging into his hair, pulling the blonde curls taut. He grasped her hips and heaved her up against the wall so her legs wrapped around his waist just as the elevator dinged and he staggered out, still trying to hold her up._

_They slammed into the wall outside her apartment door and Harley's head cracked back against the plaster. Rather than wince she seemed to groan happily, her blue eyes dark with lust and he'd taken this as a sign that things might get interesting._

_The carried on into the bedroom, shedding clothes and littering each other's bodies with kisses. She straddled his lap, letting him kiss her neck while he grabbed fistfuls of soft blonde hair and she continued making those small sounds of pleasure he loved so much. _

"_Harley," he mumbled against her throat and she made another gasping sound, her hand moving between their hips to touch him. He bit her ear, mind momentarily unfocused as she touched him. _

"_Yeah," she gasped._

"_Did you enjoy being bad tonight?"_

_This earned a giggle and she pulled away to gaze at him, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. "You mean, did I enjoy being a naughty girl?" She'd made it a joke but even in the darkness he could see her eyes glittering._

"_You were a naughty girl, Harley." He flipped her onto her back and pressed her hands up above her head, both of them dissolving into giggles at the game. _

"_Do I get a spanking?" She moaned, her voice muffled against his cheek._

"_You get whatever you want," he whispered back before kissing her again._

Why? Why was she different.

It struck him that he had changed. Not too much, he was still a murderer and a fiend. Still wanted to destroy things because the world deserved it. Still wanted to control things as he had when he was younger. Things had just become exacerbated as he grew older. As far as he was concerned he'd always been the Joker— the only difference from when he was with Harley was the suit and make up.

When she'd come to visit him in Gordon's cage she'd looked terrible; nothing like the girl he'd known but some meek horrible destroyed thing. But when she left him she'd snapped back to her old self—if not more so. A confident blonde fatal who was not afraid of him compared to her sweeter younger self—who had also not been afraid of him, actually. Perhaps seeing him as he was now, knowing exactly what he was capable of had sent her into some kind of spiral. Maybe she'd gone insane.

Or maybe she was bored with her life and wanted some excitement for a change.

He could get used to that Harley.

The chuckle formed on his lips and the fondness that so irritated him and which she'd always mistook for love came to mind again.

"_You spent so much time worrying about me belonging to you—about making sure I was yours—and the whole time you didn't realize you were mine too."_

_He felt exhausted and uncomfortable with the conversation. Harley all red lipped and soft looking at him with big blue eyes. He could still read her like a book, and right now she was trying to convince him that she was leaving for good, trying to get closure even though it was evident what she really wanted—well what she really wanted was locked up in a cage. It made him laugh._

"_You talk too much honey bunny," he sighed_

"_No," she said suddenly, reaching up to touch his face through the bars. He almost jerked away but remained still so she wouldn't think she had some kind of power over him. She was so close and she was so unafraid he felt the need to grab her by the hair and scratch her eyes out just to prove how mislead she was._

_With her index finger she traced his scars from one side to the other and the Joker felt something blaze within him. The lack of fear and the gentleness of her touch. It wreaked of something bad to come. He fought the urge to shut his eyes and enjoy her fingers drawing light pattern across his lips but instead he stared her down._

_She grinned. "Your trademark. I made them after all."_

_And she was right, he thought with snarl. She did own part of him somehow. And what was worse was she wanted to own part of him. "You did, huh. Well, I guess you can lay claim to part of my face."_

_She snorted. "Well next time you're scaring someone with them think of me."_

_Another pang. She knew him too well. He should probably kill her._

The Joker stared at his hair, blonde and curly and decided something must be done. Something must be done about Harley, about his hair and of course about Gotham. He sat up abruptly and cracked his neck from side to side. Then he dislocated his left shoulder and wiggled out of the straight jacket.

Time to play.

X

Two weeks was all it took between Harley demanding work from Maroni to her standing over Officer Anna Ramirez with the Joker's gun in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. Ramirez was cowering in on herself, crying softly, a black eye and bloody lip the most obvious of her injuries even though it was more than likely she could bleed to death from where Harley had stabbed her in the shoulder with the knife.

Ramirez shuddered under the ropes that bound her to a rickety wicker chair. Was this the same woman Gordon had fought so hard to protect from the Joker only months earlier? And now, wearing a thick slick of bright scarlet lipstick and heaps of black eyeliner and mascara Harley was strangely reminiscent of her ex boyfriend in appearance and actions.

She seemed to have just as little empathy and just as much desire for pain as the Joker. It didn't make sense.

For her part Harley was trying to decide just how much work should go into the twenty grand she was getting for this job—twice as much as normal because she was supposed to 'send a message' with Ramirez's body when it showed up in Gordon's office the following morning. Missing digits? From her experience with seeing pieces being sawed off people it took a lot of time and dedication.

She could just carve something into her chest rather than completely deforming her.

"Dr. Quinzel I don't understand," Ramirez sobbed. "I was just trying to help my mother I—"

Harley rolled her eyes and hit the cop across the face with the butt of the gun. She was pretty sure a tooth flew out of the woman's mouth with the blow. Behind her one of the two thugs that Harley had some how acquired snickered and she glared at him.

"You double crossed Maroni—but only after you double crossed Gordon. You can't be trusted, Ramirez." Harley said all of this to the Joker's gun rather than the woman herself. Eye contact seemed impossible though she loathed to admit it. "Frankly the world's better off without you. There are enough cops at the MCU on Maroni's pay roll that they should get the message when they find you."

Ramirez gave a terrified heaving sob, blood gushing from her lips.

Harley sighed. "See, that's just annoying. Don't you want to die with a little bit of dignity?" With that she quickly sawed through one of the ropes holding the cops arm back and gestured for the muscular thugs to hold her down with one arm up. "Are you a righty or a lefty?" Harley asked pleasantly, her red lips curving upwards as Ramirez began to hyperventilate.

"No! Please! Don't you feel anything—don't you feel the least bit guilty for being paid to kill people!"

Something twinged in the back of her mind and Harley's eyes slid shut at some distant memory. "No," she whispered, feeling as if she were reciting something from a play. "It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. There's no good or evil, right or wrong—they're all made up notions because we are by nature selfish, greedy and ruthless. I'm just giving in to my nature."

Ramirez stared at her blindly, her eyeliner streaming down her face but couldn't seem to find any kind of decent response to this.

Harley could feel her thugs sending her strange looks as she remained standing over Ramirez with the knife hovering over the woman's wrist. What was she remembering? Obviously something her lover had said to her once. Something that had stuck all these years. And then it struck her why the situation felt so surreal and similar.

"_So what, your job is to cut fingers off for the mob? Don't you feel bad about that?" She clanked her handcuffs against the radiator._

_Across from her, leaning on a pool table the Joker stood with lazy smile on his face and a small knife twirling in his hand. "I'm just giving in to my nature."_

Harley sighed. And then he had cut her palm and let her go. The first time they met and he had shown compassion.

She looked down at Ramirez and couldn't bring herself to see the woman cry anymore. She lifted the gun and shot her between the eyes—the cop only managing half a shriek before her body collapsed forward.

"Eh!" one of the thugs exclaimed, licking his thumb and wiping at a blood stain on his cuff. "A little warning!"

This sent Harley into a flurry of hysterical laughter and when she managed to compose herself somewhat she unceremoniously threw the knife at him, which he caught by the hilt though honestly, she hadn't decided whether he would catch it or not when she'd chucked it. "Cut 'Disgrace' into her stomach will you? And then get her on Gordon's desk."

"How the hell are we supposed to do that!" The other one asked.

"You're resourceful young men," she said casually over her shoulder as she strutted from the room. "You figure it out."

They had taken Ramirez to an abandoned warehouse on the docks; the only living things in sight were seagulls which made it the perfect place for—well—what had just transpired. Harley took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air and running her fingers down the front of her black shift dress. She'd been paying more attention to her clothes than ever before recently. For some reason dressing like Audrey Hepburn circa Breakfast at Tiffany's whilst mutilating and killing a lecherous dirty cop had appealed to her sense of ascetics.

She couldn't decide if she felt happy or sad about the fact that she'd been so reminded of her first meeting with her former lover. It was probably one of their happier memories. He'd been more or less sane and idealistic (you know, for an anarchist) and she'd been naïve and brave in the face of death. That was the initial attraction.

One of the thugs came trotting out of the warehouse then, looking nervous and apprehensive as he approached her. "Dr. Quinzel," he said politely and Harley instantly knew something was wrong at the tone of his voice. "The boss just called—we've got to get you into hiding."

"What?" she snapped.

"The Joker's escaped," he replied with a wince. "Boss reckons he'll be coming after you first and—well— we don't want you ending up in pieces."

Harley paled considerably and her black eyes fell to the ground as if searching for an answer. She could not think of a single thing to say or do in response to this.

"We gotta go," the thug pressed. "We're gonna take yous somewhere safe and chuck the cop in the harbor."

"No—" Harley said sharply. "We'll take her with us and drop her off at the MCU on the way there."

The thug looked like he was going to disagree then thought better of it and turned to go get the car. Seconds later the second thug came out carrying a garbage bag with an arm dangling out uselessly. This made Harley giggle—she wasn't sure why but there was something quite funny about a muscle head carrying a dead cop covered in garbage bags bridal style across the dock.

The giggling only distracted her momentarily from her plight. The Joker was out of Arkham and she couldn't process any emotion other than numbness. Maybe if he just came and killed her it would make everything easier. Or maybe she could avoid him—unlikely. She could kill him? Also unlikely. Perhaps he'd just leave her alone. It was just remote enough a possibility that she could see it happening.

But not really.

She desperately wished the unidentifiable ache in her stomach would go away—mostly because she had an idea that it wasn't apprehension or fear that was gripping her, nor was it anger or irritation, but something worse than all of those things in regard to the Joker. She hated herself but that pain felt strangely reminiscent to how she'd felt after just shooting Ramirez in the head. Excitement.

Her mind drifted back:

"_What about love?" She'd asked with a smile. "Is that something we've made up too?"_

_He seemed to suck on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "Yes—ahm—I think it's relatively unimportant all things considered."_

"_Considering what?" she frowned._

_He hesitated and then shrugged nonchalantly. "We're alone."_

Harley pushed a hand through her hair. That had been the first day of six years of her life spent with him. In all that time they had both been anything but alone. The very thought killed her and brought tears to her eyes.

X

A stripper called Bubbles let Oswald Cobbelpot know that a room had been made up for Dr. Quinzel and he thanked her with a harsh smack on her g-string clad ass. It left a flipper shaped red mark which made up for the disgust she attempted to hide from him.

Harley was sitting at the bar drinking a glass of red wine—the expensive stuff that went on Maroni's tab. Cobbelpot and Maroni were in a constant state of owing favors and he wasn't sure who was on the outs this time, but hearing all the mob boss wanted was a hide out for one of his favorite employees wasn't too much of a commitment. He hadn't realized this employee was the beautiful Dr. Harleen Quinzel, ex girlfriend of the Joker and more than likely his first target now that he was out of Arkham.

Cobbelpot sighed. The last time the Joker had come to the Iceberg Lounge one of his girls had been given impromptu 'plastic surgery' after spending the entire night attempting to get him to go upstairs with her. Apparently sex with a big breasted brunette dressed in only a g string wasn't his thing and being irritated by said big breasted brunette brought out the raging psychopath within.

Even so, Cobbelpot couldn't help but like the Joker. He had style, power and he was funny. He just hoped he didn't show up anytime soon looking for Harley. Poor girl. She was beautiful, it would be too bad if she lost her nose.

He waddled up to the bar and after a few attempts managed to hop up on the stool next to her. The bartender instantly started putting a dry martini together for his boss.

"Miss Quinzel," he said, getting her attention. "I am Oswald Cobbelpot, I run this establishment. Your employer has informed me of your delicate situation and being a great friend of Mr. Maroni's I am happy to help you in this difficult time."

She blinked at him. "Doctor." She said stiffly.

He frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's Dr. Quinzel. But—" she trailed off. "I think that name might be a bit behind me at this point."

He raised his eyebrows, intrigued. How much wine had she had? "We all have different names and aliases. I myself have been known as the Penguin. Not the most glamorous of pseudonyms but it has its purpose."

She hummed something noncommittal and took a long sip of wine before speaking. "And Maroni is not my employer."

Cobbelpot wanted to roll his eyes but didn't. She'd sprung into notoriety in the previous months—initially with her testimonies to get thugs out of jail time, but more recently a string of brutal murders most certainly linked to Maroni and, as rumor had it, Harley Quinzel too. Plus her involvement with the Joker—well, the woman certainly had to have balls.

"Fair enough," Cobbelpot said with a nod. "If you need anything don't be afraid to ask one of the girls."

At this Harley threw her head back and laughed loud and wickedly. "Thanks Oswald," she managed to gasp at last. I'll make sure to do that."

Cobbelpot left her alone to her thoughts finally and Harley let herself down the rest of her wine in one go before the bartender set another one in front of her with a wink. She snarled back, not finding his flirtation amusing and he scurried to the other side of the bar to polish glasses and more than likely to get away from her.

Halfway through her wine Harley half wished Cobbelpot was back to talk to her, creepy though he was. She couldn't help the loneliness that was now curling in her stomach. A very productive night work-wise with Ramirez now dead and splayed out in Gordon's chair but she couldn't help thinking the Joker would be proud—but then she tried telling herself she wanted nothing to do with the Joker. Green hair and purple suit, ruthless and chaotic maniac who could never care for her—who would insist he'd never cared for her. Who would probably sooner carve her face than kiss her these days.

He'd kissed her back when she'd leapt on him in front of Gordon during the trial. But she knew that was to make a point, not because he enjoyed kissing her anymore.

She dropped her head down, the wine only somewhat calming her anxiety. Perhaps she would just get drunk and pass out. She didn't have lectures the next day so she could sleep in and wait for Maroni to tell her what was happening with the Joker.

Someone slid onto the stool next to her and ordered a double scotch on the rocks but she didn't bother to pay attention to him, her muddled thoughts so consumed by the Joker. The man lit a cigarette and asked in a gruff voice if she could please pass an ash tray. Harley absently slid it in his direction glancing briefly at him and then did a double take.

Harvey Dent, the former District Attorney who was supposed to be dead was sitting next to her quietly smoking and drinking scotch. She stared at him for a full twenty seconds (he counted) before he slowly turned to look at her.

"Can I help you?" He asked coldly, taking her in.

"You're Harvey Dent." She said, as if in awe. "You're supposed to be dead."

He quirked his eyebrows as if this wasn't exactly big news to him. "True enough." He glanced at her crookedly. "Some people call me Two Face. Who might you be?"

She straightened up slightly, her red lips pursing primly. "I'm Dr—" she paused, looked down at her wine. "I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel," she said at length. "But some people call me Harley Quinn."

He nodded, still disinterested. "Pleased to meet you Harley Quinn."

Harley felt a pang of irritation that he was so disinclined to speak to her. He was the one who sat down right next to her at an entirely empty bar—maybe he was lonely too, she pondered. Hadn't his girlfriend been killed by—oh—by the Joker. She nearly winced.

"Do you come here often," he asked at last, his handsome face belying irony.

She snorted and found herself replying truthfully even though that was possibly a terrible idea considering the point in _hiding_ was to have no one find her. "I'm hiding."

This seemed to get his attention, and he turned fully to face her. Harley startled a bit, not expecting the left side of his face to be more or less non-existent—exposed muscle and sinew were all that was left from what she could only imagine was a horrible accident—his molars were visible through the gaps of flesh of his jaw and lacking an eyelid, his gaze seemed to twitch and flick around erratically.

"What's the matter—afraid of the scars?"

Harley started laughing again, this time until she was hoarse at the irony of the statement. "You don't know who I am?" she said at last, gasping to catch her breath.

He pursed his lips as well as he was able to and turned so the handsome side of his face was turned to her again. "I haven't been in Gotham for a while. Who are you hiding from?"

The humor drained out of her face and she swallowed heavily, dipping her head again in case her expression belied something she didn't want Harvey to see. "The Joker." She said softly.

Harvey swiveled around to face her, his eyes fierce as he demanded. "What would the Joker want with you?"

His response surprised Harley. "We used to be—involved." She said quietly, wondering why she was sharing this information with a complete lunatic with half a face. Perhaps because she sympathized with him on some level. After all, the Joker was the reason why he went off the deep end in the first place. First his girlfriend. Then his soul.

"You. You were involved with the Joker?" Harvey was staring at her as if he couldn't quite believe she existed. "How?"

Harley snarled, annoyed. "Years ago. Does it matter? I've got to hide from him now that he's out of Arkham so it clearly doesn't. Anyway, I'm used to scars so there's no need to be too insecure about that face of yours, Harvey." When he didn't reply and only lit another cigarette she continued. "I know it was you—you who went after those cops after the Joker was captured. I know it wasn't Batman—he only took the fall so you'd become a martyr instead of a villain. Everyone was relying on you to lift Gotham up from the slums but what you did was much—" she tried to search for a word but could only come up with mumbling. "If it weren't for Batman you would have shown Gotham it's true colours."

He was staring at her as if she were the strangest thing he'd ever seen again. The bartender put another drink in front of each of them. "You think what I did—was _good_?" He frowned.

"There's no such thing as good or bad," Harley muttered. "People deserve to see the truth. You almost did that."

"You flatter me," he sneered. "But the Batman put an end to that."

"So you've given up?" she asked ruefully. "Just like that?"

"Of course not," he snapped. "What are you doing anyway?"

Harley shrugged. "Whatever I feel like." A smirk slipped over her face as she thought about what Gordon was going to find in his office in the morning and she felt the need to brag. "There was a cop—a dirty cop who double crossed a lot of people to get what she wanted." She couldn't help but giggle. "Commissioner Gordon's going to find a great surprise in the form of Ramirez's body sitting up at his desk in the morning." The giggles manifested into nearly full blown hysterics until she saw how Harvey was looking at her with wide eyes almost full of awe.

"You killed Anna Ramirez?"

Harley coughed back another round of giggles. "Yeah—what's it to you?"

"She betrayed me. She drove my fiancée to her death." He looked at his scotch and then at Harley. "Thank you." He said quietly.

Harley almost choked. She started to feel bad for Harvey, his situation was not exactly ideal. Girlfriend dead. Missing half his face. Completely and utterly fallen from grace. And worst of all he didn't seem to want to do anything about it. Or didn't know what to do about it.

"People should know that you're not a martyr." She said abruptly, her voice rising slightly. "It isn't right. You should do something about it."

Harvey rolled his eyes. "Embark on a philosophical quest for anarchy like your ex-boyfriend? I don't think so."

Harley laughed. "I was thinking more along the lines of something fun—you know. Seems like we could both do with a bit of fun." He looked at her curiously and prompted her to continue.

She grinned cheerfully. "—Hmm—We could always blow some stuff up."

X

Note: Please **REVIEW!!! **It takes like five seconds and right now only 1 in fifty people is leaving me a note. :( Tis very disheartening.


	4. Must We Burn?

Black Mischief and Red Kisses

4. Must We Burn?

X

Oswald Cobbelpot watched Bubbles give a lap dance to a rather seedy looking thug who worked for Maroni. He kept touching her thighs which was normally forbidden but when the thug showed up at 2pm with a wad full of hundred dollar bills there was little Bubbles could do but accept his fondling. Cobbelpot sighed. Criminals could be such low lifes.

His mobile phone began buzzing in the pocket of his waist coat and he pulled it out to see a number he didn't recognize flashing on the screen. He rarely received calls from people he did not know—generally he didn't receive calls at all so he decided to answer reluctantly.

Rather than saying hello he simply cleared his throat.

"Why hello Ozzy," came the slick snicker on the other side of the line.

Cobbelpot groaned and stalked to his office. "Hello Joker. I hear you've managed to escape Arkham. My congratulations."

"Yeeeeaaaaah," The Joker drew the word out for a while and sighed. "Thanks. Listen, I'm looking for someone and all signs point to you. Have any idea who I mean old pal?"

"I'm not sure what you mean at all, Joker." Cobbelpot said smoothly. He had decided choosing a side between Maroni and the Joker was futile and could only hope to be as evasive as possible.

"I think maybe you do," the Joker said snidely. "Cute blonde, great legs, possibly might have alluded to being thrown out of a window at some point…"

"You mean your famous friend Miss Quinzel, do you not?"

"Where is she?" The Joker growled, the humor leaking from his voice.

Cobbelpot sighed. "I'm sure if she wants to see you, she'll find you." And with that he snapped his phone shut, hoping he hadn't just solidified Harley's more than likely painful death at the hands of the Joker.

He turned on the news, hoping to be distracted seen as Bubbles had disappeared to a private dance room with her greasy yet wealthy mobster. The entire situation was not ideal—especially since seeing Harley and Harvey Dent speaking in low tones the night before had not escaped his notice. They seemed very buddy buddy. He could not begin to imagine what the Joker would do if Dent somehow got his girl into bed.

"—at least twelve dead and eight injured, Julia. Paramedics arrived on the seen minutes after the explosion at the clinic but the blast was big enough to obscure entry into the building."

Cobbelpot's beady eyes jerked to the screen, his interest peaked. It was probably the Joker.

The anchor woman repeated this thought. "Beth, is there any chance this is the work of the Joker who has yet to make a move since his escape from Arkham?"

"It's unlikely Julia, partially due to the lack of evidence that he generally leaves at the scenes of his crimes but also two people were seen leaving the site after the explosion."

"Do we have any information on these two suspects, Beth?"

Beth seemed to struggle a bit with her response and she cleared her throat. "Witnesses say the man appeared to be Harvey Dent, former District Attorney who was assumed dead at the hands of the Batman and an unidentified woman."

Julia could not help but blanch. "Harvey Dent? She looked around frantically and a picture of Dent's smiling campaign photo was brought up on the screen. "Could this just be witness speculation?"

Beth continued to look uncomfortable. "Wounded victims inside the building confirm that it was indeed Harvey Dent who is especially identifiable by the severe burns on the left side of his face. Police insist they are looking in to it and that so far there is no evidence pointing towards a teaming up of Dent and the Joker. The woman, however was described as being a petit blonde with blue eyes."

"Thanks Beth," Julia said faintly, clearly shaken.

As most of Gotham would be. Harvey Dent alive and murderous.

The Penguin made an irritated sound. Why couldn't they all behave a bit more civilized?

X

"Boss—you're going to want to look at this—" a thug approached the Joker carefully, not wanting to upset him after his clearly very disappointing conversation with whomever he'd been on the phone with. His shoulders were hunched under the purple coat, his lips twitching, sucking on his lips ravenously while he tried to think clearly. Harley did not want to be found. The bitch.

"Boss— It's Dent—Harvey Dent's alive."

The Joker whipped out a knife from his sleeve and threw it at the man; it landed in his chest with a sickening smack sound. It was only then that he realized what the thug had said—Harvey Dent was alive? Scrambling over his own feet the Joker hurried into the next room where three more thugs were huddled around the gritty old television. He hit one over the head with the butt of his gun to clear a space and watched with astonished pleasure as Harvey Dent's picture flashed across the screen.

He'd blown up a free clinic in the narrows—Harvey, his little Harvey that he'd pushed over the edge to madness all on his own. It was delicious—Batman had thwarted the game before but now Harvey was back proving himself not the martyr they all wanted him to be. No, finally, after months, the white knight had fallen.

The news anchor continued, interrupting his blissful thoughts. "The woman was described as a petit blonde with blue eyes."

This new nugget of information made all the joy seep out of him within seconds and he let out a low animalistic snarl that prompted several of the thugs to move away.

So. Harley and Harvey were playing bad guys together, hmm? He could not fathom the number of things this could mean—most undesirable was that Harvey had seduced his old flame to spite the Joker for killing Rachel. But surely he'd been forgiven after helping sleff of Harvey's moral coil.

Most desirable was that Harley had taken up his own mantle and encouraged Dent to make his presence in Gotham known. She was smart enough to do that. But perhaps now— She was, after all, still Dr. Harley Quinzel, respected psychiatrist and productive member of society. At least that was what the world had been lead to believe.

Something had to be done.

X

Later that evening Harley was back at the Iceberg Lounge. She'd attempted to go back to her apartment to get some clothes but there were cops out front. Not a huge surprise considering she and Harvey had just blown up the free psychiatric clinic in the Narrows. It seemed a fitting message to send to the world and it had done the job of getting Harvey out of martyrdom. No, he was a villain. The world should see him as such. And she'd done her part in that.

It was all over the news that he'd been at the scene of the crime. As nonchalant as he tried to be Harley could see he was secretly pleased for getting credit for their caper.

As for Harley, well, no one recognized her. She was sure she wanted to keep it that way for at least a little while longer.

She caught Cobbelpot's eye behind the bar and offered him a tight smile which he returned grimly and went upstairs to her room. Living above a strip club for the time being wasn't exactly thrilling but—well—Harley had no other plans. Maroni had mentioned putting her up in an apartment where the Joker wouldn't find her.

Harley very much doubted this would happen. He would find her eventually and it would probably be sooner rather than later. It didn't disturb her as much as it had before, to know that a murderous psychopath was going to come for her. It was just she didn't know what he would do when he found her.

And what was worse, she didn't know what she would do when he found her.

There was no point in worrying over it, although she did little else. No one could control the Joker. Least of all her.

Harley pushed the door to her room open and flicked on the light. Her heart nearly stopped as soon as the room brightened from the dim light on the bed side table illuminated the wiry form of the Joker stretched out on the bed. She gave a rattling gasp and almost turned to run when she realized he wasn't moving or mocking or strangling—but sleeping.

He was just lying on top of the covers sleeping. Purple coat flung over the chair, he wore the narrow purple trousers and dark green waistcoat she remembered so well; the blue octagon pattered shirt was rolled up at the sleeves with his hands tucked under his head.

Overwhelmed, she couldn't decide if she should still run and tell Cobbelpot that the Joker was in his establishment. But then where would she go—Maroni? Harvey? Gordon?

Harley found herself drawn to the bed and his sleeping form, unable to look away or run. Her eyes pricked with tears and she desperately hoped she wouldn't start crying. At least not until he was sawing off her fingers or similar. She sat on the bed and stared at his face, unable to process why she was so sad to see him rather than afraid like she should have been.

It had been the same before. During the trial she had just been sad—but that was the pathetic mousy Harley, she was not that woman anymore.

Even so, as she watched him sleep her heart swelled with memories of times in the past when he'd been capable of being so peaceful. Through the clown make up she could see the lines around his mouth and eyes where they'd crinkle when he smiled. The scars so imperfect but lovable anyway because she had made them for him. Black eyelids shut hiding those wonderful green eyes capable of so many emotions. Especially when he glanced at her from under his eyelashes and they'd share a secret look. So much more satisfying than talking.

She'd started crying quietly at this point, single tears escaping the corners of her eyes unbidden. His hair was that dirty blonde again since the green had faded from it and it was clean and curly from daily showers at Arkham. A piece was tucked delicately behind one of his ears as a small child would. And then his body—still the same body almost but not as skinny—now he was wiry and that hidden strength was more apparent than before.

Harley couldn't help herself. She touched his hair, half expecting him to wake up and grab her hand and snap it in half but he remained asleep as she petted him a few times, wishing so hard that this was the same man she used to love.

She gave up. She slid down next to him, praying he wouldn't wake up and knowing she was more or less signing her own death warrant by her actions. She tucked herself up next to him, her back pressed against his chest and felt so content for the first time in years she didn't think she was capable of moving. Killing people had been close to this kind of release, but no where near as good.

He smelled of gunpowder and coffee. Just like she remembered.

His hand snaked up her leg suddenly and Harley froze, fear instantly paralyzing her when she realized that there was a very good chance she'd die in the next ten minutes for snuggling a serial killer.

He traced his fingers over her hips and briefly across her arms before wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer, his face buried in her neck with every inch of her pressed against him. She could feel his breath, hot and human against her cheek and it practically killed her thinking how much she'd missed him. Not the Joker.

Harley couldn't move or think clearly. She just hoped maybe he missed her on some level and was enjoying having her near. Kind of like a 'This Doesn't Count' moment. But then she felt him chuckling to himself, his chest rumbling against her back and his fingers trailed up her torso to her neck where, after hovering for a moment, his palm clamped down on her throat and cut off her airway.

She tried to gasp but couldn't drag in a breath as he rolled her onto her back and peered down at her curiously.

"Hmm. _Hey_ Harley. Long time no _see_."

She grappled at his wrists, struggling violently to breathe but this just seemed to amuse him.

"To be honest," he sighed, long suffering and conflicted. "I've been _really_ curious about you. Didn't know _what_ to expect what with you running around with the Italians these days like a common criminal." He pushed her harder into the bed and shook his head. "But here I am, lying here minding my own business and you come cuddling up—very stupid Harley. _Very_, very stupid."

Harley's vision was beginning to blacken around the edges and she could only just make out his grinning clown face. She flailed against him trying to be released but his grip on her throat was relentless. She managed to scratch his cheek and catch her fingers in his blonde curls before pounding on his arms with all the strength she had left in her.

"Aww, baby. I missed you too." He cooed.

Harley passed out.

X

Note: just a lickle chapter. Please review!


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